The
Hospital’s Hospitality— an unplanned family trip
Urvee
Chatterjee
I
call this an avalanche of stressors when you are already ten feet deep, buried
under stress.
Saturday
began as usual, a sliver of stress sliding into my brain as it hates being
totally unprepared for any exams. Back pains still exist (yes, it has been two
weeks, almost three now, doctor's diagnosis was something I can't remember
exactly, and my frail body is not strong enough to support the brain activity
required to decipher his handwriting), which made it difficult for me to sit up
and study. So, my phone was keeping me company, also helping me study.
Everything was fine until 30 minutes before midnight. After a mild dosage of
painkiller, I was ready for bed, going over a few things on my phone (I was
shamelessly scrolling through Reels), we, that is, my father and I, heard a
series of screams, ranging in intensity and intentions. My sweet mother (not
figuratively, literally), a diabetic who has a habit of sleep-snacking, left
the natural habitat of her desk and laptop to feed herself knowledge of her
past works. For some context, my mother is an author of over twenty books (if
my memory is accurate, 27 is the exact count), across various genres and
writing styles— stories, poems, novels, essays, articles, fiction, non-fiction,
etc. You name it, she has written about it. She's originally a chemistry
honours student but has pivoted towards literature, anthropology and genetic
studies (solely based on available research material online) in recent years.
Coming
back to the main story, we move about 15 to 20 minutes back in time. I know for
a fact that a chemistry major has had to study basic physics and, by virtue of
that, should understand a bit of biomechanics. She is excellent at mental
calculations but was never good at practically executing them. Adding her
stubborn, uncompromising, and never-give-up attitude to her confidence over
mental calculations, she climbed onto a stool to reach the top shelf of one of
our bookshelves, right by our main door. Her first attempt was successful.
Additional information, she suffers from diabetic neuropathy, RLS and
osteoporosis, which has caused weakness in her knees and slight degeneration in
her vertebral column.
Excited
over her success, she got down, ran to my father to share the news that she
managed to climb it in one attempt. My father, a man who also suffers from a
couple of bone-related issues and has lived a couple of years more than my
mother on this planet, advised and warned her not to attempt it again, if
needed, to let me or him at least know about it. My mother, at the ripe age of fifty-four,
is more stubborn than a hormonal teenager and refuses to listen to any form of advice
until she is in great danger. Mind you, this woman had a total hysterectomy seven
years ago, so she can't blame her hormones anymore.
By
the time she came back to her laptop, she realised she no longer remembered the
piece of information she had collected earlier. My father, by this point, had
already begun preparations for his sleep as he had to wake up early with me to
drive me to my examination centre. He didn't notice my mother slipping away
from their comfortable, AC-cooled room to the living room.
Shocked
scream number one, CRASH, pained scream number two and then a series of groans.
Her screaming or shrieking over things isn't uncommon. Random lizard sightings
or falling of things often elicit one, hence the first one didn't cause me to react
immediately, plus my back has slowed down my reaction speed significantly. The
crash remained unheard to me, which is strange because my room is right by the
living room and kitchen, and the slightest movement in any of those places
captures my attention (maybe the helicopter blade, sounding like a fan, muffled
her crash). By the second scream, I was already by my door and almost out of my
room. My father, too, had come out and was a couple of steps ahead of me. We
see my mother sprawled across the floor, in the narrow area between the main
door and the bookshelf that houses all her published books and trophies.
Through
her pain, she kept asking us to pick out the book she wanted. After a few
seconds of discussion between my father and me on who should attend which task
based on their current abilities, my father helped my mother up from the floor,
and I climbed the stool to grab her precious, worth life sacrifices, book. My
knees are fine even after 2 weeks of awkward squatting to pick anything from
lower regions or the floor, so getting up the stool was easy. What I failed to
perceive at that moment was that coming down from the stool would require my
lower back strength, too.
A
little tiding on the stool (I learned the word today, technically yesterday for
me, is getting used here): this stool was built with leftover wood and faux
leather scraps from when our sofa/couch. It matched the aesthetic perfectly,
but its only defect was that it wobbled slightly. But Indian households refuse
to let anything go to waste, hence it became a companion to our shoe rack,
where we could sit and tie our shoelaces if and when required. Well, that was
the supposed use, but it was used more by our maids to keep their bags on while
they worked through our house (maid servants in upper-middle-class families are
common in India, please don't be shocked).
I
would like to apologise here shortly for the length of this tale, as I promised
a short retelling and not a full-length novel about only three days of events,
but I promise to keep it entertaining and, hopefully, short for everyone's
sake. We would now like to drag our attention back to the main story.
The
above series of activities had, by then, overridden the effects of my pain
medication. I wasn't in extreme, unbearable pain, but it was definitely
discomforting. My mother, the victim of her own enthusiastic actions, was in
grave pain. She was able to walk back to her bedroom with my father's help,
which gave us hope that the injury might not be grave. Still, she wasn't able
to move on her own, so the concern loomed in the air. A formidable question
arose: who would take me to the examination centre tomorrow? Being physically
overexploited and mentally exhausted, we decided such a decision should be made
based on my mother's condition and the availability of help, the next morning.
Sleep
was unattainable through the night, running on only 3 hours of sleep, I was debating
whether to even go for the exam. Skipping wouldn't have been the end of the
world because I already had secure options with me, and this was an additional
avenue for the same destination. Yet my father was determined to get me there.
He ended up calling a professional driver at seven o'clock on a Sunday morning,
requesting if he or anyone hear knows might have been available to take me to
the centre. The poor soul hadn't even woken up at that time. Although he
initially tried to avoid the responsibility himself, he agreed to take me. With
our car keys in his hands and destination on Google Maps, he flew me to my
examination centre within half the time my father would have taken.
Constant
weather change, between clouded skies and scorching sun, my sinusitis also
decided it was showtime. I walked straight inside, went through all the
verification procedures, and sat in an unventilated, AC-free room (broken AC)
for almost an hour before the exam began. This was a computer-based test, which
required us to sit in front of malfunctioning desktop screens. My sinusitis was
overjoyed, welcoming my migraine to the fiasco. Back pain was already down
three drinks at this party and was happily dancing. While my body was a party for pain, I
surprisingly was able to answer a solid number of questions. I finished my exam
right on time. Emotionally satisfied, but mentally and physically, I was in a
war zone— barely holding their head up, happy to see their mate safe.
The
ride back home was comfortable, all thanks to two of the few responsible and trustworthy
humans in my life (I am talking about my dad and the driver who has
consistently shown up at our difficult times), who made sure to have a working
engine and AC in the car. Yes, we flew back home.
My
migraine had said goodbye, and sinusitis was calmed down, but my back pain was
the lone soldier at the party, dancing through some heartbreak unknown to me.
Maybe it was angry about my lack of physical activity and had had enough. At
home, things weren't better either. My mother was writhing in pain, well, try to
imagine how well she could do that with an injured back. An old, general
physician visited her and told my parents that there might be a hairline crack
in her femur or pelvic bone, but the chances are low. The main thing that
happened was a shock-related injury. He suggested an X-ray and asked my mother
to be on full bed rest.
A
little history dating back to Friday. I went to an orthopaedic to get my back
pain checked, who ordered an X-ray too to make sure if I have any spinal issues
at all, although that's highly unlikely for someone my age. Monday was the day
we had already decided on, so it became a family outing to the hospital.
My
mother was in the emergency ward of the hospital where my parents' insurance
works. The first two plates showed nothing alarming to either the technician
who did the scans or the resident handling the emergency ward. But to get an
expert opinion, he obviously forwarded the scans to the orthopaedic attending
who was on rounds that day. The immediate opinion from this "expert"
was to send her for another scan to confirm his suspicion of a fracture. The
process got repeated again. The resident wasn't convinced of the attending's
diagnosis but didn't dare question him. The second round of scans apparently
confirmed his suspicion that my mother indeed broke the head of her femur and
required immediate surgery to replace it. Yet he ordered a 3D CT scan to make a
final diagnosis. My father, the only uninjured one, was running between billing
and the emergency, and came back when this orthopaedic finally came to visit my
mother. My mother, although in pain, was able to walk completely normally; the
only issue was that she couldn't raise her left leg as high as her right one.
This was enough proof for the doctor to get her into surgery immediately,
without considering the risks of putting a diabetic through a major surgery
without further testing.
A
friend of my father who had connections at this hospital strictly told us not
to get into surgery. The emergency
doctor and the technician weren't sure either. Our neighbourhood
physiotherapist also told my father that even if there might be a hairline,
complete bed rest was the right treatment plan for her. Ultimately, we decided
to get the CT scan and take her back home.
Evening,
our old physician came for another visit, saw the scans and straight up told us
that absolutely no surgery is required. Those apparent cracks most likely were
natural articulations of the bone. He still asked to wait for the radiologist
and the final CT scan report.
Yes,
through all of these events regarding my mother, I was still in pain, but was
more stable, and my reports were absolutely normal.
Tuesday,
that was today, when I began writing this, now yesterday, my father went back
to the hospital to collect the reports.
*Drumroll
please*
NO
FRACTURES FOUND. The only defect was Subarticular sclerosis and lordosis,
something that she was diagnosed with years ago and already was receiving
treatment for. Her only complaints are the pain, which is due to compression of
the back muscles and requires rest and slow movement. Something in you at this
point must have told you she's already struggling with the treatment plan.
That
was all about my weekend and the first two days of the week. My pain was at its
worst on that Tuesday morning. It's 2 am now, and I am not quite sleepy yet
because I slept the entire morning trying to avoid the pain.
Thank
you all for listening (aka reading) my rant with so much patience.
Keywords:
pre-existing injuries, medical comedy, hospital, recollection